


I'll Try

by St4re4ter



Series: Things That Could Have Been [2]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 00:12:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16459745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/St4re4ter/pseuds/St4re4ter
Summary: Randall has trouble keeping his impulses in check and makes a decision.





	I'll Try

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place some point after Miracle Mask, but don't ask me to pinpoint it on a timeline because I don't know for sure. They're dating.

Water bubbled quietly in the kettle, brought just shy of boiling and left there to avoid disturbing the silence that cradled the Layton household that evening. A lone man stood in the kitchen, framed by an assortment of dishes that never seemed to be in their proper place. The fixings for tea had been haphazardly set on the table, but they too were left alone. Randall knew he wouldn’t need them. He had told himself he was just making a cup of tea to soothe his nerves before bed, but that was a lie and he knew it. There was only one thought circulating in his head at the moment, and it wasn’t about enjoying a warm beverage. He sighed and put his fingers into the box of loose leaf tea, trying to distract himself with the sensation of the various spices as he crushed them between his fingers. A part of him wondered if he was ruining something valuable, but his mind had long since disconnected itself from his body and his hands did not stop. It was just another inconvenience to add to the list anyway. He was sure they expected of him it at this point. 

He clenched his fist, digging his nails into the palm of his hand. The tea leaves that were still trapped between his fingers crumbled to powder as useless as he felt. What was he even doing? He was such a disaster. He pressed his nails deeper into his hands and then threw his arm outward, scattering the contents of the tea boxes across the kitchen in the process. 

The kettle whistled sharply and Randall was startled out of his tantrum. He winced and snatched it off the stove top, hoping desperately that no one had heard the noise. The last thing he wanted to do was bother anyone else with this. He held the kettle for a moment, lost in each individual snap and pop the water made as it boiled. He wanted to touch it so badly, to feel the forms of the water as it ran over his hands and burned away his mistakes. He had always had problems with keeping his impulses in check, and this was no exception. The thoughts inside him were practically screaming to be carried out. They wanted him to burn, to feel, to be carried away like he should have been by the sands of Monte d’Or. Who was he to deny them?

“Randall,” a voice came from behind him, somehow managing to project across the house despite its soft volume.

Randall whirled, nearly spilling the contents of the kettle. He felt his heart crash to the floor as he spotted the source of the voice. Hershel Layton stood at the foot of the stairs dressed in only a sweater and pajama bottoms, his signature hat nowhere to be seen. He carried himself in a manner that could only be described as exhausted, his body slouching under the weight of being awake at such an indecent hour. Despite this however, his eyes glinted with concern. 

“Randall what are you doing?”

Randall instinctively tried to hide the kettle behind himself and then realized how stupid that would have looked.“Oh Hersh!” he managed, his excitement ringing false in his own ears. “I was having a bit of trouble sleeping so I thought I would make something to drink, you know?” He gestured expansively towards the kitchen, fully aware of how weak his excuse sounded. 

Hershel took one look at the ruined boxes of tea and the kettle in Randall’s hand before firmly taking it from his grip and setting it back on the countertop. Randall shrunk in on himself, feeling like a child caught playing with matches. He picked at the edges of his fingernails anxiously. Hershel was too sharp not to have a grasp of the situation. He knew. Of course he knew. Randall pulled harder at his fingers, and then was stopped by the touch of a hand on his. 

“Randall,” was all Hershel said as he took Randall’s hand in his and led him towards the couch.  
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” Randall blurted out, acting on autopilot. 

Hershel raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond to Randall’s comment as he sat him down on the couch. “One moment please,” he said before padding off into another room, leaving Randall alone with his thoughts again. 

Randall only managed to sit still for a second or two before he started fidgeting with his fingers and then the side of the couch, pulling at loose threads while his mind turned. Part of him wished that Hershel would just go back to bed and forget about all of this, but he knew that would never happen. Hershel was going to come back and talk to him in with all of his quiet assuredness, just like he always did. Randall ripped a thread from the couch, taking small satisfaction in the way it snapped. He thought he had outgrown this dynamic, but here was endangering himself and forcing Hershel to pick up the pieces, playing the same old game over and over again. He really had been trying to get better since his time in Monte d’Or, but somehow he always managed to add some other small weight to his friend’s shoulders. He knew all his mistakes and reckless ideas balanced on Hershel’s back like some misshapen tower, but he still could never get things right; always running his mouth or doing stupid things just for the thrill of it. He really was nothing more than a disaster. He wished he had just thrown himself down a hole to be done with it then and there. At least that way he wouldn’t have been hurting anyone more than he already had.

Randall’s careening train of thought was interrupted by something soft as it was wrapped around him. He froze, momentarily overwhelmed by the new sensation before realizing it was just a blanket. He relaxed backwards as Hershel finished winding the blanket around him. Hershel lifted Randall’s hands off of the edge of the couch, careful as always, and pressed a wooden object into them. It was a small cube puzzle that Randall had probably solved a hundred times at this point, but having something to fidget with helped anchor him. Hershel didn’t say anything as he took a seat on the couch next to Randall, but the concern on his face spoke volumes. 

Randall took the cube apart and turned the pieces over in his hands, avoiding eye contact. “So now I’m being arrested for crimes I didn’t commit? Hershel, I’m scandalized,” he joked from within his blanket prison, trying to take the edge out of the air. 

“Randall, please.”

“Sorry.” He fumbled, his movements with the cube growing clumsy. 

Hershel opened and closed his mouth, looking as if he was struggling for the right words. He pinched the bridge of his nose and stared at the floor for a bit before looking up at Randall again, still unable to speak. 

Randall set the cube down on his lap and looked to his friend, finally able to make eye contact. “I’m fine, really,” he said, dropping his artificially cheerful tone in an attempt to convince Hershel of his sincerity. It was just as much a lie as before, but this one came from a place of genuine care. “I’m not so bad off that you have to spend all your time looking out for me.”

Hershel’s expression remained the same, stuck somewhere between worry and frustration at his own inability to speak. 

“It was just a nightmare, honest. No monster under the bed is gonna get the better of me.”

“I can’t watch you do this to yourself, Randall,” Hershel said finally, his voice barely breaking through the silence in the room. 

Randall felt an unseen weight crash into him as Hershel spoke. “I–” Randall cut himself off and picked at the edges of his nails again. There were no words he could have said that would have changed the situation. Hershel knew what he had been doing in the kitchen and no amount of clever comments could convince him otherwise. “I’m sorry,” he managed finally, but it was like trying to fix a broken dam with tape.

Hershel said nothing, his expression unreadable. 

Randall opened and closed his hands, grasping at the air in an attempt to channel his emotions somewhere. “I’m trying my best, Hersh, I really am,” he said, quietly. “Sometimes it’s just…” he moved his fingers in an almost frantic gesture, trying to convey something that words couldn’t. He could feel the pressure building up in his chest, pressing at his edges in search of release. He couldn’t avoid talking now that he had been caught, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak either. It would just be another piece that Hershel would have to pick up, another of Randall Ascot’s loose ends to tidy and mend. He brought a hand to the armrest of the couch, the intensity of his pent up emotions causing his fist to slam against the worn fabric with more force than he intended. 

Hershel recoiled in surprise but composed himself almost instantly. His gentleman’s mask was too careful, too practiced to be lost over Randall’s sudden motion. “I’m here,” he said, his voice giving away the emotions that his face struggled to hide. 

Randall nodded, choking on the pressure rising in his throat. He pulled at his hair, and then the blanket, seeking something, anything to anchor him in the rising swell. Tears burned at the back of his eyes and he squeezed his eyes, trying desperately to hold them back. “I’ll be alright, really.” 

Hershel hummed almost too quietly to be heard and took Randall’s still fidgeting hand in his. Randall clung to the warmth fiercely, and then he was nothing more than a teenage boy again, sitting under a tree in a world that had been torn away by visions of empty masks and rushing sands. It was too much. Something in him snapped and he was sobbing into Hershel’s shoulder, his hands tangling themselves in the fabric of his sweater. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeated, unable to remember any other word. 

Hershel ran a tentative hand through Randall’s hair, and Randall sobbed harder, his breath coming in great gasps. “I’m s-so sorry,” he managed. The whole world had gone dark, visible to him only through the eye holes of an all too familiar mask. He pressed himself further into Hershel’s sweater to block it all out but it was no use. The damn had broken and he was fire and rage, an angel of death overlooking a wasteland of his own creation. Monte d’Or sprawled before him, an empty husk of its former glory that came to him often on nights like this. Sand filled every corner of every space, suffocating and strangling even the air itself. Only the crooked peaks of the Reunion Inn were visible in the distance, threatening to give way under the weight of Randall’s vengeance. His breath hitched and he could feel his hands on a sweater in someplace he could no longer see, but it was no use. The sands that had swallowed Henry and his city of miracles were rising to consume him as well, and there would be no denying the hunger. He could feel it creeping up to his shoes and then his knees, torso and chest, singing release and all that came with it. This is the reward you’ve earned, it whispered as it filled his mouth and nose. The sand buried him completely and somewhere above him a lone top hat was carried away by the wind. It’s owner had long since joined the fossils he loved to study so. 

 

x x x

Randall was pulled from his state by the sound of Hershel calling his name. He opened his eyes to see his friend’s face and felt relief wash over him like an ocean wave pulling away the sand. Hershel’s arms were wrapped around Randall, muscles locked and trembling ever so slightly from the tension. Randall could have sworn he saw tears in the corner of Hershel’s eyes, but as soon as their gazes met Hershel dragged a clumsy sleeve over his face, hiding the evidence forever. Randall felt a small smile tug at the corners of his mouth despite everything. 

“Hershel, I–” 

Hershel tightened his hold on Randall’s back, the rare display of physical affection revealing just how shaken the man actually was. Randall let himself sink into the comfort of his grip. He reached out and cupped his hand against Hershel’s cheek. “I’m sorry,” he said as gently as his spent voice could mange.  
Hershel’s eyes met his, and the exhaustion in them nearly split Randall apart again. “I–” Hershel inhaled, holding the weight of everything for a moment before finally exhaling. He sunk back into the couch and pulled his hands away from Randall, staring at them. “I am afraid, Randall,” he said choosing his words deliberately. “I am afraid that someday I will return to an empty home.” He took a shuddering breath. “I can’t lose you again.”

Before he could register what he was doing, Randall had swept Hershel into a tight embrace. “Hershel, listen to me,” he said, filled with a sense of determination born of genuine care. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Hershel’s eyes were filled with doubt. Randall held him closer, for his own sake as much as Hershel’s. “I–, I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” he started, suddenly finding the words that had been lost to him earlier. “I still make them all the time. But there’s one mistake I’m never going to make again, I swear.” He rested his chin on the top of Hershel’s head. “I’m never letting go of you again.” 

Hershel let out a muffled sob and leaned further into the embrace. “...Please don’t,” he whispered. 

“I just said I wouldn’t didn’t I?” Randall teased, starting to feel a bit more like himself again. He would get through this, for Hershel’s sake if nothing else.

Hershel let out something between a snort, a sigh and a sob. “I suppose you did.”

Randall released his hold on Hershel and ruffled his hair before relaxing back into the couch. He was exhausted.

“I sure did.”

Hershel didn’t reply, instead choosing to rest his head on Randall’s shoulder in a sign of comfort that was a remnant from a time when both of them were nothing more than boys in a small world with big dreams. Moments later, Hershel was fast asleep, breathing softly onto Randall’s shoulder. It had been a rough night. Randall smiled and brushed a curl of Hershel’s hair away from his forehead before pressing his lips against it in a soft kiss “There’s my Hersh,” he murmured. “God, what would I have done without you, huh?” 

Randall ran a hand through his hair and sighed. He really needed to get a handle on his impulses. It had all worked out this time, but he knew better than anyone how much of an impact his lack of self-preservation had on Hershel. His friend had spent eighteen years blaming himself for Randall’s death. Of course he was terrified of what Randall could get up to if left unsupervised. It was perfectly justified, and Randall hated himself for making that Hershel’s reality. He pulled at the edges of his fingernails. “I’m gonna get it together,” he told himself firmly. He owed Hershel and everyone else at least that much. “I promise.” He wasn’t so naive as to believe that it would be easy or even soon, but looking at the face of the man next to him he knew he had to try.


End file.
